Clinton turned to look at the three men on the benches. None of them spoke; but each of them glanced at him and grinned in a private way.

“You happen to know where he is, sir?” Clinton said.

“When’d you get to town?”

“Just a little while ago.”

“How’d you get here?”

“Hitchhiked. A fella picked me up on his motorcycle.”

“What fella?”

“I don’t know who he was.”

“What’s your name?”

“Clint Williams.”

“Berry-berry’s your brother, huh? You carry a knife, too?”

Clinton reached into his pocket. “I got a little one, a fingernail knife.”

“Never mind,” the officer said. Then, “You sent your brother two hundred dollars. What for?”

“He needed it. He was goin’ into the shrimpin’ business.”

The officer raised his voice again: “Berry-berry was goin’ into the shrimpin’ business, did you guys know that?”

One of the policemen laughed out loud this time. But the other two only snickered. The behavior of all these men caused Clinton to flush red with embarrassment and annoyance, and he tried to suppress these feelings.

“Your brother hasn’t claimed that two hundred. It’s still over at the Western Union. Who’s Ralph? He another brother?”

“He’s my father.”

“Your father know where you are?”

“Sure. I told him I was comin’ down here. How’d you know his name?”

The officer did not answer this question. “How old are you, Clint?” he asked.

“Sixteen.”

“What’re you gonna do, stick around, wait for Berry-berry to turn up?”

“I don’t know yet. Is he in some kind of trouble?”

“Nope.”

“Then he’s not here? I mean in jail?”

The officer shook his head. “We don’t know where he is.”

“Well,” Clinton shrugged. “I guess I’ll just have to start lookin’ for him. Thank you, sir.”

When he had reached the door, he heard the officer’s voice. “Clint. Come back here.”

He went back to the desk. Ramírez asked him to sit down, and then the two of them had what seemed to be a friendly conversation. The officer asked a number of obtrusive questions, unrelated to Clinton’s search; and there were long pauses in which Ramírez looked at Clinton in a quizzical way that caused the boy to squirm in his chair. But Clinton believed that the officer was interested in helping him find Berry-berry.

At length, Ramírez consulted a list of telephone numbers glued to the surface of his desk. Then he picked up the phone and dialed.

“Sellers? Ramírez.” He looked at the clock on the wall. “Three-thirty. —‘Cause I need to know something, that’s why. You sleep too much anyway, fat ass. Listen, where’s Berry-berry? —No, nothing like that. The girl hasn’t talked yet; she probably won’t either. —His kid brother’s here lookin’ for him, come all the way down from Ohio. —Oh, screw you, you’re such a goddam lily. Go back to sleep.”

He dropped the receiver into its cradle. “He don’t know either. Bail bondsman. Sometimes those guys know everything. But he don’t know where Berry-berry is.” He put a cigarette in his mouth, but he did not light it. “Your brother used to be in the Festival a lot. That’s a strip joint on Gasparilla. But you can’t get in there, you know.”